


Swiss Diplomacy

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: The Catcher in the Rye
Genre: F/M, Incest, West Wing Title Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-28
Updated: 2007-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Holden, and he's always tried to look out for her in his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swiss Diplomacy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing. For [**the West Wing title project**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/1487052.html).

Phoebe grows up while Holden's away. She doesn't mean to--it just sort of happens. He's away for a long time. One day, she's riding the carousel at Central Park, reaching for the brass ring, and the next, she's getting her period, and her mother's taking her _bra_ shopping at _Macy's_. In the cab on the way home, her mother Talks About Boys (Phoebe can _hear_ the capital letters when her mother speaks), but Phoebe is more confused than ever afterwards. It's okay, though--the boys at school are stupid and immature and she doesn't want anything to do with them anyway.

Holden writes letters to her, long, rambly letters that wouldn't make sense to anyone else, but she _understands_ (when she doesn't, she tells him so) and Holden is always looking for someone who _understands_. He has a whole string of ex-girlfriends who haven't. When she writes back, she tells him about her conversation with their mother and asks his advice about boys.

Don't ever trust a boy, he writes. They only want one thing, and they'll tell you all kinds of lies to get it.

Phoebe is thirteen at the time. She believes him.

*

Phoebe is sixteen the first time she lets a boy put his hand up under her skirt. The boy--whom she first met at one of her parents' summer parties, and whose name is Grady Harrington--doesn't really know what he's doing, so she puts her hand over his and tries to guide him. She pretends to enjoy it, so he won't take offense, but the whole thing is rather a disaster--a long tease with no payoff. She's desperate to get back to her room so she can finish the job properly, and she's not as careful as she should be. She gets caught sneaking back into the dormitory. When she calls home, she's ashamed, not because she let him touch her (or because she'd wanted him to, something Holden had never mentioned in his letters, and she, at thirteen, had never considered), but because it's such a _cliché_.

Holden answers after half a ring--he's home early for Thanksgiving, still on west coast time--and he agrees to pick her up at Grand Central in the morning.

*

Her train is late getting in, of course, and since she was up at the crack of dawn to catch it, she missed breakfast.

"I'm starving," she says, leaning in to kiss his cheek. He smells of chilly autumn air and sandalwood. "New cologne?"

"Elizabeth bought it for me."

Elizabeth is ex-fiancée number three. Phoebe's never liked her and was glad when he broke off the engagement. "Oh. Are you two--"

"No."

"Good." She doesn't mean to say it out loud, but he laughs, so it's okay.

He takes her suitcase and wraps an arm around her shoulders, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. "I can't believe you kept that hat," he says.

"I--" She touches a hand to her head. The hat had amused her when she was younger, and had reminded her of him when he was away. "Does it bother you?" Everyone else has spent years being careful around him, but she never has. She's never felt the need to.

He shakes his head. "No. It's...appropriate."

She kisses him again. "That's what I thought."

*

"Serendipity?" he says. "Or are you too grown up to have ice cream for breakfast?" He gives her a slow, appraising look that makes her face warm.

"I never want to be too grown up to have ice cream for breakfast," she says. She slips her arm through his, ready to walk the twenty blocks uptown, but he surprises her, hails a cab.

"You can't walk all the way in those shoes," he says, holding the door out for her.

She slides across the seat and blushes again. Of course he's noticed her new pumps--he's always noticing things like that about people; he told her that Dr. Birnbaum says he notices too much, has too many thoughts--that's why he always ends up back in the sanitarium. Phoebe doesn't understand how anyone can have too many thoughts, but if anyone does, it's Holden.

He pays for the cab and holds the door open for her when they enter the café, and for one brief moment, she wonders if this is what going on a date feels like, but then he snickers when she stumbles over the threshold, even though his hand is warm and steady on her back, and he's _Holden_ again, her big brother.

*

D.B. won't be arriving until Wednesday night, so Phoebe sleeps in his room that night. Old habits die hard, and she's always liked having room to spread out. She has a bottle of brandy from the liquor cabinet tucked in the desk (that way, she can always claim it's D.B.'s if Mother finds it, but she hasn't yet), and when Holden slips in, she shares it with him with a conspiratorial grin.

She doesn't expect him to lecture and he doesn't disappoint her. He tips the bottle back and takes a long drink, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

They pass the bottle back and forth between them until she's warm and sleepy, slumped against him with her head on his shoulder. Her lips are tingling and her head feels light as a balloon that might float away if someone untied the string.

"I miss you," she says, and her voice sounds soft and far away.

Holden looks down at her, his eyes bright in the dimness and his mouth glistening with brandy. "I'm right here."

She laughs, and he leans in and covers her mouth with his, his tongue slipping sweet and hot between her lips. She freezes, but doesn't push him away. She remembers being shocked the first time a boy put his tongue in her mouth--she'd thought everybody kissed like in the movies, with their mouths closed, lips pressed together. She'd been disgusted, but intrigued, and when she'd asked Holden, he'd told her not to let any lousy boys stick their tongues in her mouth, God only knew where they'd been.

She doesn't want to think about where his has been.

His hand is tight and hard on her shoulder, like he can't decide if he wants to shove her away or hold her close, and she feels a split-second of indecision as well, the sick tug of something in her belly telling her this is wrong, but it's Holden, and he's always tried to look out for her in his way; he never means to hurt her and is always sorry when he does. The moment passes, swept away by brandy and familiarity. She sways into him, lips tingling and wet heat pooling between her legs. He sighs into her mouth, relaxing against her, his tongue moving slick and rough over hers, stubble scraping her cheek.

He pulls away and she doesn't know what she'll do if he stops now, but he just screws the cap back onto the bottle of brandy and puts it down on the floor next to the bed. Then he lies down and pulls her down next to him. They neck for a while, until she's tingling all over and rubbing up against him shamelessly, desperate for release.

"I miss your elephant pajamas," he says against her neck, his hand sliding beneath the elastic of her striped pajama bottoms.

"Buy me some for Christmas," she says, her laugh turning into a gasp as he touches her. Unlike the boy whose name is currently escaping her, Holden doesn't need her to show him what she wants.

*

Holden's gone when Phoebe wakes up, and she can almost believe she dreamed the whole thing, except there's a red hickey blooming on the inside of her right breast, and her mouth tastes like stale brandy.

She's grounded, of course, for being sent home from school early. She spends her day in the kitchen with Charlotte, making pie crust, hangover making her sluggish and wan. Mother pops in every few minutes to feel her forehead, and she remembers being a little kid and thinking she could raise her temperature just by concentrating on it and thinking of something _very, very_ hot.

She thinks about last night, Holden's hand between her legs, and maybe old Alice Holmborg had been onto something, because her face is _burning_ and she can't sit still while she's rolling out the dough for the mince pie. After lunch, Mother finally sends her back to bed.

She lies beneath the cool sheets on D.B.'s bed and imagines she can smell herself on them, imagines Holden's hand when she touches herself, over and over until she's filled with the warm lassitude of satisfaction. When she's done, she wipes her slick fingers on the sheet and falls asleep.

*

Holden is leaning against the desk when she wakes up. It's dark, and she's confused for a moment, before she remembers. It's probably dinnertime, and she's not sure she can face their parents across the table.

"Phoebe--" He won't look at her, and she can't read his face in the dark. He raises a hand, pale as a dove, and lets it flutter back to his side before shoving it into his pocket. "Phoeb, I'm sorry."

She shakes her head, holds out a hand. "Dance with me, Holden." She remembers him teaching her to dance, the foxtrot, the jitterbug, even the tango. Remembers the way he always held her like she was precious. Loved.

He hesitates, and she raises her chin, sets her jaw. She starts humming--she doesn't even know what, just something to break the silence that's stretching too long between them--and he takes her hand, swings her around in a waltz that doesn't match the tune.

When they're done, he steps back before she can cajole him into a foxtrot, or maybe a jitterbug. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I didn't--I never meant to hurt you."

"You didn't. I swear you didn't. Cross my heart and hope to die." She grabs his hand before he can shove it back into his pocket. "I mean it."

"You're just a kid, a goddamn kid, and I--"

"I'm sixteen!"

"And I'm a lousy brother."

"You aren't, Holden." She takes a step towards him, close enough to feel his breath on her skin. "I liked it."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about." She hates hearing that dismissive tone; he used to never use it with her, and she isn't sure how to respond.

"I faked it with him," she blurts out. "With Grady. I didn't fake it with you." It seems important that he know that. Maybe if he knows it, he won't feel so guilty. It hurts her more to see him like this than anything they did last night.

It doesn't seem to matter. He brushes past her without responding, and she lets his hand slide out of her grip.

She drops down onto D.B.'s bed and covers her head with the pillow, hoping he'll come back, try to talk her out from under it like he used to.

He doesn't.

He never touches her like that again.

*

Holden doesn't come home for Christmas. He has a new girlfriend (D.B. doesn't like her, and Phoebe hates her sight unseen) and calls to say he's spending the holiday with her family in Palm Springs. He sends gifts, though, and on Christmas morning, Phoebe opens a professionally wrapped box from Lord &amp; Taylor to find a pair of pajamas with elephants on the collar.

She can't explain why she cries.

end

~*~


End file.
